


Time and a Place

by Flutiebear



Series: Free As We'll Ever Be [4]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Post-Game(s), Sexual Content, The Chantry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett and Anders have made it to Wycome, but their meeting has been delayed. However will they pass the time? Response to a k!meme prompt requesting sex in the Chantry. Takes place after "Free As We'll Ever Be" and "Anonymous".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Seven years you’ve been in the Marches,” Anders said, leaning in close.

“Seven years, three months and two days.” Garrett grinned.  “But who’s counting?”

“Seven years,” he repeated firmly. “Yet you still talk like someone’s punched you in the mouth.”

Garrett recoiled in mock horror. “I’ll have you know this twang is considered highly sophisticated by dog lords and mud barons the Bannorn over.”

Anders stifled a laugh and tried to look dignified and important. 

“All the same, love,” he murmured in _that tone,_ a warm, knowing inflection that the smug bastard _knew_ did things to Garrett’s insides, “I think you should leave the talking to _me_.”

Garrett huffed, the great puff of air blowing his bangs up a little.

“Especially if you were planning to speak Dog,” Anders said affectionately.

“You kiss this mouth, you know.”

“And it is a delicious mouth,” Anders agreed, licking his lips a little as he strutted toward the Chantry. “But it’s not one particularly apt at giving revolutionary speeches to xenophobic Grand Clerics.”

“Oh, suddenly Sparky-Sparky Boom Man wants to _talk_ to the Grand Cleric,” muttered Garrett as he followed his lover up the creaking wooden steps. “Last I heard, that wasn’t really your style.”

Anders whipped his head around, eyes flashing, and for a moment, Garrett thought he might’ve teased too far. But then his lover smirked.

“Times change,” he said, pushing open the Chantry doors. “Unlike your accent.”

Garrett followed Anders into the warm lodge, trying to avoid the impertinent mermaid frieze leering down at him above the doors. In another city, the juxtaposition might’ve been blasphemous, but this was Wycome: the city of mud and jazz, of hurricanes and floods and random acts of revelry. That the Chantry had once been a tap room decorated by saucy fishfolk meant only that the building possessed a more respectable pedigree than most others in this dockside town.

Before they’d made it their next destination, Garrett had known little about Wycome, apart from the one fact all good Fereldans knew: that it had been King Maric’s final destination before he’d been tragically lost at sea. The reality of the place had come as a pleasant surprise.

Nestled at the mouth of the Minanter, Wycome certainly wasn’t the largest metropolis; it probably didn’t even rank larger than Denerim (and oh, how Garrett wished Lady Elegant were here so he could tweak her snobbish Marcher snout about that). But it was city, not dale, and it had roads and not trailheads. Best of all, there was a decided lack of angry tree-monsters lobbing rotten fruit at his head – and after the past six months he’d spent wandering ancient Sylvan mating grounds, that counted for quite a bit.

All sorts of merchants and other vulgar folk converged on Wycome, given the city’s convenience to both the Amaranthine Ocean and the Rialto Bay. Antivan leather merchants rubbed shoulders with Rivaini mystics, who employed mercenaries from Estwatch and Ostwick and cheated tourists from Amaranthine, and at twilight the whole lot of them would fill up the boardwalk taverns to gossip, to drink and to cram as many raw oysters and fried dough balls down their throats as they could manage.

And what Garrett liked best about the city was the way the night air would thicken with the scent of riverwater and honeysuckle until it became so heavy and humid it would have no choice to rain; so rain it would, furiously and quickly, as if getting it out of the way, so that even the weather could get back to the party.

It was nicer than Garrett had expected, more romantic and pleasant, and if it were up to him, they’d set up permanent operations in Wycome, turning the new Mage Underground into the Mage Port-of-Call.

But Anders, of course, hated it. Because Anders hated everywhere nice.

“The people here,” he’d muttered shortly after their arrival. “They grow soft and complacent, fattening up on sweet treats and never thinking about the luxuries they have gained on the backs of the dispossessed.”

Or maybe it was Justice who didn’t like nice places.

You couldn’t take him anywhere.

As they stepped into the Chantry, Garrett’s mind wandered back to the present, forcibly returned by the lingering stink of stale peanuts and watered-down beer -- still palpable despite a forest’s worth of sickly-sweet incense burning in every alcove.

“Maker’s breath,” he moaned. “It smells like one of Merrill’s dinner parties in here.”

Anders shook his head. “Not enough rat dung. And don’t swear in a Chantry, love.”

“Forgive me, _Sebastian_ ,” Garrett muttered, eyeing a statue of a particularly buxom Andraste that had likely been appropriated from the previous tenants as well. “From now on I’ll just stick to killing people in them. Besides, since when do you care?”

“Given our unique circumstances, I don’t want to give the Sisters any further reasons to be skittish,” Anders said. His empty hands flexed nervously by his sides, and Garrett felt a wistful pang under his ribcage. Back in Hercenia, Isabela had convinced the two to sell their staves – it would help them travel incognito, she’d said (as well as a leering “it’s not like you and Sparklefingers need _more_ wood in your hands”). But the task had been easier done than accepted, and six months later, Garrett still longed for the comfort and support of familiar, well-worn oak against his palm.

Had he not been so terrified of angering the Sylvans, he would’ve picked up a fallen bough as they travelled along the Minanter and used that instead.  But Sylvans, they’d found out, were remarkably touchy about their dead wood.

Garrett reached over and squeezed Anders’s hand briefly, earning only a nauseated smile in response.

“You’ll do fine, love,” he whispered. “This isn’t Kirkwall, and she isn’t Elthina.”

As Anders opened his mouth to reply, a young acolyte appeared. Her hair was swept into low buns—an ironic fashion tribute, no doubt, to Queen Anora, under whose scandalously child-free reign over post-Blight Ferelden had ushered in a new Golden age of culture and prosperity.  To Garrett’s delight, Thedasians the realm over had adopted her hairstyle with the same sense of condescending solidarity that once drove Kirkwall’s elite to sew silk and gilt patches onto their doublets in times of famine and plague.

“Can I help you?” she drawled in a thick East Marcher accent, her words long and unhurried.

“We’re here—“

Anders cut Garrett off mid-twang. “We’re here to see Grand Cleric Speravina,” he said to the sister, giving his love a sharp glance. “Tell her the Blue Dragon has arrived.”

Her eyes widened, and she nodded, scurrying off into what might have once been a kitchen.

Garrett glanced over, expecting Anders to chastise him for attempting to interrupt, but the mage seemed more preoccupied with swaying unsteadily on his feet.

“I hope this goes better than Ansburg,” Anders murmured.

Garrett stepped as closer, nudging his shoulder against one dingy feathered pauldron as if he were bracing a barn door.

“Come now, Sparky,” he said, flashing his most disarming grin. “You heard what they were saying in the market. The Chantry sisters here are half in love with you already.”

“That’s what frightens me,” Anders muttered. “I blew up a temple and they want to set off streamers.”

“It’s the feathers. They make you look so heroic and romantic.” Garrett clapped him on the shoulder and pulled him close. “Don’t look a gift mabari in the mouth, love,” he whispered. “We need all the allies we can get.”

Anders nodded, turning his cheek slightly so that his nose was inches from Garrett’s, his breath hot on a thick, furry cheek. Garrett could see Anders’s pulse throb at his neck, could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the scent of elfroot and sweat and dirty, glorious _Anders_ filling his mouth and lungs. It had been days since they’d last made love, a record dry spell for them, and Garrett’s mouth watered at the sudden, unbidden memory of how Anders’s spit-slick cock tasted just before he came.

He swallowed thickly. _Time and a place, Garrett,_ he told himself in his best Aveline voice. But it was hard to think of times or places or anything at all with his love the Blue Dragon so near, looking and sounding and, Maker, somehow even _smelling_ every inch the romantic hero from Varric’s tales.

“Speaking of mabaris,” Anders said in a hoarser voice than usual. “Where’d yours run off to?”

“I left him with a gaggle of school girls outside the Chantry.” Garrett sighed and discreetly adjusted himself.  “That dog. He’s such a glutton for attention.”

Anders laughed, low and warm, and the sound sent a shiver coursing up Garrett’s spine. “You’d think we’d been in the woods for months, with only us and the Sylvans to keep him company.”

Garrett was about to mention something about Dalish shepherds and atrocious lute playing when the acolyte returned.

“I’m sorry, messeres,” she said, and her wide blue eyes suggested that she was, in fact, genuinely apologetic, and maybe a little afraid, too. “The Grand Cleric is indisposed. She--she cannot see you now.”

“But she asked to see us!” Garrett cried, not caring how menacing his Ferelden twang was. “We’re here at her request.”

“Please, messere, try to understand,” she replied, eyes widening so large they looked like great scarab beetles about to take flight. Her hands began fluttering at her sides like useless wings. “She has many duties—some more important than others—“

“What can be more important than the plight of mages across Thedas?” Anders said evenly but tiredly.

The acolyte shifted on her feet and blushed a deep scarlet.

“I can’t—messere, it’s not my place—“

“This is ridiculous,” Garrett said, stepping forward.

The acolyte scuttled in front of him, blocking his way.

“P-please, messere,” she said, her eyes frantic and dancing between Garrett and Anders but mostly to Anders. “Please, she’s meeting with the head of the Enchanter’s Guild. I’m sure she won’t be very much longer. If you’ll just be patient—“ 

“How long?” Anders asked, crossing his arms.

If possible, the acolyte’s face blushed even harder. “Another—er, fifteen, twenty minutes? Their business is—er, almost concluded.”

He sighed. “We’ll wait then.”

The acolyte let out a grateful sigh and led them to a small waiting room with one chair and a small table. The quarters were close enough to possibly double as a confessional.

“Please wait here, messeres,” she stuttered. “I—I can send refreshments.”

Before Garrett could accept her offer in his haughtiest spoiled-noble tone, Anders replied with a firm, “That won’t be necessary,” and a wave of his hand. She gently closed the door, and as soon as she had, Anders slumped into the wooden chair.

“Dear Maker,” he sighed. “Did you see how frightened she was of us? Of _me?_ ”

“She probably thought you were going to blow up the wine cellar if she made you mad enough,” Garrett teased. “Or would that be the reliquary now?”

Anders gave him a grumpy look, assuming his most petulant pout.

“Oh love, don’t be sour,” Garrett murmured. He sauntered over to kneel between Anders’s legs, letting his hands drift lazily down the worn black coat, the frayed leather belts, the dingy cotton trousers and the delightfully half-hard cock that bulged from beneath. “I know just how to cheer you up.”

“Time and a place, Garrett,” Anders muttered unconvincingly.

“You heard the girl. We have fifteen minutes.” Garrett grinned as Anders unconsciously licked his lips. “And if she comes back before then—“ He nipped at the laces tying Anders’s trousers, playfully nuzzling the swelling cock with his cheek, like a cat. “—maybe she’ll think I’m just wrestling the demon back into the Blue Dragon and she’ll leave us alone.”

Though his eyes remained closed, Anders’s voice took on a slight edge. “He’s not a demon, Garrett.”

“Maybe not,” Garrett replied, as he mouthed Anders’s cock through the fabric. The mage threw his head back and moaned loudly. “But you certainly _fuck_ like he is.” 


	2. Chapter 2

“Maker, Garrett,” Anders sighed. “You do know how to stroke an abomination’s ego.”

“Among other things,” Garrett  agreed, grinning.

He gave a slow, broad lick against the front of Anders’s trousers, fingers gripping the mage’s hips as he traced the long line of Anders’s cock with the flat of his tongue.  Anders sucked in a breath, and when Garrett did it again, Anders cradled the back of his head so tenderly, so gently that Garrett couldn’t help but smile.

Anders was always so gentle.

Except when he wasn’t.

“At least let me suck your cock a little,” he begged, pouting dramatically. “It’s been _so_ long.”

Anders chuckled, low and warm. “I could never deny you anything, love.”

Garrett smirked. Closing his eyes, he slid his hands up Anders’s torso, snaking underneath his tunic, skating palms along the fine hairs on his stomach, the slightly protruding ribs, his taut nipples, his scarred heart. Anders was warm, so warm, his flesh burning like a fever, like the Fade made incarnate, and the heat made Garrett’s own cock twitch and strain. 

With the tips of his front teeth, Garrett tugged the trouser lace open. Anders briskly shimmied his trousers down – a none-too-graceful movement Garrett liked to call his “spicy shimmy” – and freed his cock. His beautiful, silk-smooth, hard as a staff cock.

Garrett grabbed its base with one fist and looked up at Anders, who was already gazing down at him with a beatific expression, one fit for the Andrastian statues lining the hallway outside.

The two smiled at each other, familiarly, lazily, as content as they’d ever been back in the Hawke estate. Maybe even more so.

Then, without warning, Garrett took as much of the length as he could into his mouth and throat, burying his nose in the thicket of Anders’s coarse, blond hair.

“Fucking _Maker,”_ Anders gasped.

Garrett released the cock with a wet pop. “Now, now, Mr. Dragon. _Language_ , if you please.”

Anders bent down as close as he could to Garrett, twining his fingers into the hair at the back of Garrett’s head. “You cheeky little fucker.”

“We’ll get there,” he whispered with a smirk.

Anders pulled him up for a quick kiss before letting him return to his task. Settling back on his knees, Garrett wetly kissed the underside of Anders’s cock, eliciting a happy murmur from the man above.

He ran his tongue along his lips and took the firm head into his mouth, sucking earnestly, eagerly. He knew some men didn’t much care for giving fellatio, but this was a labor he loved, that he could never get enough of—not the least reason of which because he knew how much Anders loved it in return.

And when Anders loved something, he made sure to reciprocate.

Garrett licked and he sucked, his lips dragging against the silky-hard length with abandon. Every now and then, he’d flick his tongue across Anders’s slit, or pause to lick the shaft with broad, flat tongue strokes. Anders tasted like salt and skin, fever and saliva, and he smelled like a particular grass that grew on the sun-facing side of the windmill hill in Lothering. Sometimes Garrett could close his eyes and he was back there, sucking Anders’s cock in the grasses and the sunshine and the autumn breeze, everything free and perfect and as it always should have been. 

And sometimes he’d close his eyes and he’d still be in a Chantry, sucking his lover’s cock with joyful enthusiasm as portraits of Shartan and Maferath looked on.

Although Garrett could tell Anders was trying as hard as he could to stay quiet, the man still moaned like the Blooming Rose best, gasping and panting and scrabbling at Garrett’s hair and shoulders. Every sound, every motion went straight to Garrett’ cock, and when he could no longer take it, he unlaced his own trousers and freed himself, beginning to tug his own length with short, insistent strokes.

It wouldn’t take much to come like this. Not much at all. And maybe that’s all that Anders needed, a quick suck in the Chantry confessional to relax and soothe his nerves. But that wasn’t all that Garrett wanted. Not even close. Garrett wanted to feel Anders’s length inside him, the stretch and burn and glorious glide; Anders’s hands on his cock instead of his own, his hot seed spilling onto that beautiful, fevered chest.

He sucked a little deeper. Stroked a little faster.

 “Love,” Anders gasped, “Maker—fuck— _please.”_

“Well,” Garrett murmured. He came off Anders’s cock and briefly filled his mouth with one of Anders’s balls, giving it the gentlest of sucks and pressing his tongue against the soft underskin. He let go and sat back on his heels. “Since you asked so _nicely_.”

Garrett pulled away and stood up. At first, Anders made a low whining noise, but when he saw Garrett’s hard and ready cock, red and already weeping, the noise died in his throat.

Garrett climbed astride Anders’s hips, relishing the heat against his inner thighs, the sweaty stick of flesh against flesh and the insistence of Anders’s erection against his backside. With a quick flick of his hands, he cast a grease cantrip on his opening – not the most elegant (or cleanest) way to go about things, but Garrett didn’t care; they were under time constraints, and besides, Garrett needed it, needed _him_ so badly, he didn’t want to wait.

“Anders. Love.” He adopted his best Champion  voice. “Fuck me _now.”_


	3. Chapter 3

“You know that tone doesn’t work on me,” Anders said, but the wriggle in his pelvis and the fingernails digging into Garrett’s hips belied his confident words.

Garrett smirked and ground his hips down, sliding Anders’s cock against the inviting cleft of his buttocks.

Anders sharply sucked in a sharp breath, pulling Garrett for a sloppy, hungry kiss. When they broke apart, he let out a particularly unconvincing sigh against Garrett’s lips.

“Fine,” he murmured. “But I’m only doing this because I want to, not because you ordered me to.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” breathed Garrett.

He lifted his hips and gripped the shaft of Anders’s cock, aligning the blunt head against his opening.

Garrett tried to sink down, but Anders hesitated, holding his hips steady, resisting the descent. His eyes darted down briefly, and Garrett knew what he was thinking; normally they’d take the time to use fingers, to stretch and prepare, but of course that wasn’t possible now; and the one thing (the only thing) Anders shied away from in bed was hurting Garrett in any way.

Garrett stroked his lover’s cheek tenderly and caught Anders’s gaze. No more teasing. No more games.

“Please, love,” he whispered. “I need you.”

That was all the permission Anders had apparently sought, because he then jerked his hips upward, burying himself to the hilt in Garrett.  
Both men moaned in unison. Anders’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Maker, you’re _tight_ ,” he hissed.

“Been a few days,” Garrett sighed.

They began to rock together, keeping a steady rhythm, faster than usual, more urgent and needful, but good, oh so very good: all moist breath and sticky flesh, the scent of musk and sweat and sun-side Lothering grass. At first it burned a little, but Garrett couldn’t care, not really; not when it felt so good and he felt so alive and Anders hit _that spot_ , the one that made him shiver and gasp, as if he were the one possessed. He was already so close to the edge, and it wouldn’t be long now, but he didn’t care about that either; what mattered now was sensation, and freedom, and friction, glorious friction.

Garrett’s focus narrowed until all that mattered, all he could sense was the push and pull, the warmth and the stretch and the glide; the sound of his own juddered panting mingling with Anders’s hungry little gasps and moans; Anders’s kisses hot and wet against his neck; Anders’s nipples tightening against his forefingers; Anders’s fingernails digging into his lower back; Anders’s hand on his cock, stroking strong and sure; Anders’s heartbeat against his palm—-Anders and Anders and only ever _Anders_.

Garrett came with a shout, spurting hard over his lover’s hand and chest. Anders followed soon afterward, biting off a curse as his seed spilled into Garrett, his hips pounding out a staccato rhythm until finally, finally, all was calm.

For a moment they sat there, their limbs and breath intertwined, falling, relaxing.

“You were right,” said Anders at length. “I do feel cheered up.”

“See?” Garrett smiled as he slid off Anders, grabbing at Anders’s coat for a spare bandage to wipe the two of them off. “There’s _always_ time and a place for love.”

Anders laughed and poked him in the belly. “You softie.”

Garrett shrugged.

“You knew what I was when you ran away with me,” he said, nuzzling Anders’s neck, sated, complete, content.


End file.
